PS 3515 
. E62 S5 

1908 



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THE SMOKER'S 
YEAR BOOK 



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THE 

smoker:s 
year book 



Thc' verses 

ivrittcn on paper 

by 

Oliver Herford 

The pictures 
drawn on stone- 
by 

Sewell Collins 



The whole 
published 
i by 

MOFFAT. YARD &. COMPANY 



NEW YORK 
1308 



7535-' 



LIBRARY of CONlSRESS I 

Twu CoDies Rweived j 

NOV 2\ 190d I 

CopyriiMt entry ', 
CLASS Ui- XXc, Mo, I 
COPV i. 



Copyright, 1908, 6y 
MOFFAT, YARD & COMPANY 

NEW YORK 



AU rights retervtd 
Fubtishtd, October, 1908 



JANUARY 



JANUARY 

NOW Time the harvester surveys 
His sorry crops of yesterdays; 
Of trampled hopes and reaped regrets, 
And for another harvest whets 
His ancient scythe, eying the w^hile 
The budding year with cynic smile. 
Well, let him smile; in snug retreat 
I fill my pipe with honeyed sweet, 
Whose incense wafted from the bowl 
Shall make warm sunshine in my soul. 
And conjure mid the fragrant haze 
Fair memories of other days. 




FEBRUARY 



FEBRUARY 

BEND you n6w before the shrine 
Of the good Saint Valentine. 
Show to him your broken heart — 
Pray the Saint to take your part. 
Should he intercede in vain 
And the maid your heart disdain, 
Call upon Saint Nicotine; 
He will surely intervene. 
Bring burnt offering to his feet, 
Incense of Havana, sweet. 
Then the maiden's shade invoke, 
It will disappear in smoke ! r^ 

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MARCH 



MARCH 

HERE comes bluff March — a cross 
between 
A Jester and a Libertine. 
He loves to make the parson race 
With wicked words his hat to chase ; 
To dye with compromising rose 
The pious man's abstemious nose. 
The ladies hate him, though he shows 
A pretty taste for silken hose. 
The smoker views him with distrust, 
Shielding his last match from his gust. 
But once alight — his holy joy 
No blast from Heaven can destroy ! 




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APRIL 



APRIL 

LADY April, it is clear, 
Is the spoilt child of the Year. 
See her tears about to start — 
Thus she melts old Winter's heart. 
Now the gay deceiving thing 
Turns and plays the deuce with Spring. 
Winter lingers at her gate; 
Spring grows chilly and irate. 
I'd go home if I were he — 
It is just such girls as she 
Make a fellow thank his stars 
For the solace of cigars. 




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MAY 



MAY 

LIKE Brunhilda, May is won 
By the kisses of the Sun. 
Siegfried like, the maid he takes 
In his arms and she awakes 
To the tender piping sound 
Of the birds — while all around 
In a magic fire ring 
Purple flames of Crocus spring. 
Now I fill my fragrant briar, 
Lo! it glows with gentle fire, 
Wafting scented wreaths of love 
To the little leaves above. 




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JUNE 



JUNE 

"TV/HAT so rare as a day in 

V V June ? " 

Thus I heard the poet croon, 
To the month of roses sweet, 
His song with barometric feet. 
Perfect days I own are rare — 
All depends on how you fare. 
Can a day be perfect to 
The rose that has not sipped the dew? 
Can the Bee, do you suppose. 
Hum, that has not sipped the rose ? 
Can there be for Man, I say, 
Without a smoke, a perfect day? 




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JULY 



JULY 

RED rockets skyward rush pell-mell 
And fill the night with noise and 
smell. 
The stars of Heaven look down, and say: 
"So this is Independence Day! 
Poor earth-bom stars, it makes us sad 
To see your fire work like mad 
To make a Human Holiday. 
Where is your independence, pray?" — 
Whereat I woke- — my fire was low. 
My pipe was out. Said I : " Heigho ! 
I never thought of it that way, 
I'll give them both a holiday." 




AUGUST 



AUGUST 

DROWSING o'er my sainted briar, 
Dreaming dreams of Heart's Desire, 
Dreaming 'neath the August sun. 
Thus my meditations run — 
What if that great Ember bright 
Were a monster Pipe alight. 
Or the glowing from afar 
Of some Fire-God's cigar? 
If the Smoker's Peace abide 
In that sun fire, multiplied 
By its vastness, I will be 
Henceforth a devout Parsee. 









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SEPTEMBER 



SEPTEMBER 

AS the smoker sometimes sees 
In Nicotian reveries 
Features of some Lovely Girl 
In the tinted wreaths that curl 
From his pipe; so, as we gaze 
Through the soft September haze 
In the years' calm afternoon 
Red with summer's ashes strewn, 
Through the tender veil of mist, 
Woven gold and amethyst, 
Summer's charming ghost we see 
Decked in Indian panoply. 



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OCTOBER 



OCTOBER 

SAY ! October, how in thunder 
Do you keep so young, I wonder? 
You're no chicken, and you know it, 
Yet, old man, for all you show it. 
You might, on a sunny day, 
Pass for April or for May. 
See, your house is falling round you. 
Yet you're laughing — ^say! confound you. 
What's the secret? How'd you do it? 
Mist and moisture? Ah, I knew it! 
A pipe! A mug! October brew. 
Fill up — October — here's to you! 




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NOVEMBER 



NOVEMBER 

WHO'S that pedler at the door? 
What! November, back once 
more? 
Why, it seems but yesterday 
That he took himself away! 
Say I'm out! Tell him to go! 
He has nothing new to show. 
Same old lay-out every trip, 
Same Pneumonia, same old Grippe, 
Same old Hard Luck tales to tell, 
Same Thanksgiving Day — oh, well. 
Show him in — then stir the log 
And bring church-warden pipes and grog. 









DECEMBER 



DECEMBER 

PROUDLY beams the Christmas Tree 
In its tinsel finery. 
Round and round in sprightly pairs 
Children dance to old-time airs — 
Though they laugh they make no sound; 
Dancing, still they tread no ground. 
Naught but airy phantoms they 
Of a vanished Christmas Day, 
Ancient playmates found again 
In a smoke wreath's purple skein, 
And they whisper in my ear, 
" Does Christmas still come once a year ? " 










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